>>>>>>>HARRY POTTER AND THE SORCERER'S STONE<<<<<Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone is
the first novel in the Harry Potter series
written by J. K. Rowling and featuring Harry
Potter, a young wizard. It describes how Harry
discovers he is a wizard, makes close friends
and a few enemies at the Hogwarts School of
Witchcraft and Wizardry, and with the help of
his friends thwarts an attempted comeback by
the evil wizard Voldemort, who killed Harry's
parents when Harry was one year old.

also for lovers of harrypotter novel Let's meet here and mingle together

THE BOY WHO LIVED
　　Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four,
Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were
perfectly normal, thank you very much. They
were the last people you'd expect to be
involved in anything strange or mysterious,
because they just didn't hold with such
nonsense.
　　Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm
called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a
big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although
he did have a very large mustache. Mrs.
Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly
twice the usual amount of neck, which came in
very useful as she spent so much of her time
craning over garden fences, spying on the
neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son
called Dudley and in their opinion there was
no finer boy anywhere.
　　The Dursleys had everything they wanted,
but they also had a secret, and their greatest
fear was that somebody would discover it.
They didn't think they could bear it if anyone
found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was
Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for
several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended
she didn't have a sister, because her sister
and her good-for-nothing husband were as
unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The
Dursleys shuddered to think what the
neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in
the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters
had a small son, too, but they had never even
seen him. This boy was another good reason
for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want
Dudley mixing with a child like that.
　　When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on
the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there
was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to
suggest that strange and mysterious things
would soon be happening all over the country.
Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his
most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley
gossiped away happily as she wrestled a
screaming Dudley into his high chair.
　　None of them noticed a large, tawny owl
flutter past the window.
　　At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up
his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the
cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but
missed, because Dudley was now having a
tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.
"Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the
house. He got into his car and backed out of
number four's drive.
　　It was on the corner of the street that he
noticed the first sign of something peculiar --
a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr.
Dursley didn't realize what he had seen --
then he jerked his head around to look again.
There was a tabby cat standing on the corner
of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in
sight. What could he have been thinking of? It
must have been a trick of the light. Mr.
Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared
back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner
and up the road, he watched the cat in his
mirror. It was now reading the sign that said
Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; cats
couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave
himself a little shake and put the cat out of
his mind. As he drove toward town he thought
of nothing except a large order of drills he was
hoping to get that day.
　　But on the edge of town, drills were driven
out of his mind by something else. As he sat
in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't
help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of
strangely dressed people about. People in
cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who
dressed in funny clothes -- the getups you
saw on young people! He supposed this was
some stupid new fashion. He drummed his
fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell
on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite
close by. They were whispering excitedly
together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that
a couple of them weren't young at all; why,
that man had to be older than he was, and
wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of
him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this
was probably some silly stunt -- these people
were obviously collecting for something... yes,
that would be it. The traffic moved on and a
few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the
Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.
　　Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to
the window in his office on the ninth floor. If
he hadn't, he might have found it harder to
concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't
see the owls swoop ing past in broad
daylight, though people down in the street did;
they pointed and gazed open- mouthed as owl
after owl sped overhead. Most of them had
never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr.
Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-
free morning. He yelled at five different people.
He made several important telephone calls
and shouted a bit more. He was in a very
good mood until lunchtime, when he thought
he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road
to buy himself a bun from the bakery.
　　He'd forgotten all about the people in
cloaks until he passed a group of them next to
the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he
passed. He didn't know why, but they made
him uneasy. This bunch were whispering
excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single
collecting tin. It was on his way back past
them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag,
that he caught a few words of what they were
saying.
"The Potters, that's right, that's what I
heard yes, their son, Harry"
　　Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded
him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he
wanted to say something to them, but thought
better of it.
　　He dashed back across the road, hurried
up to his office, snapped at his secretary not
to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had
almost finished dialing his home number when
he changed his mind. He put the receiver back
down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no,
he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an
unusual name. He was sure there were lots of
people called Potter who had a son called
Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure
his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even
seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or
Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs.
Dursley; she always got so upset at any
mention of her sister. He didn't blame her -- if
he'd had a sister like that... but all the same,
those people in cloaks...
　　He found it a lot harder to concentrate on
drills that afternoon and when he left the
building at five o'clock, he was still so worried
that he walked straight into someone just
outside the door.

need ur encouragement and comments guys

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man
stumbled and almost fell. It was a few
seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the
man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't
seem at all upset at being almost knocked to
the ground. On the contrary, his face split into
a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice
that made passersby stare, "Don't be sorry,
my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today!
Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last!
Even Muggles like yourself should be
celebrating, this happy, happy day!"
　　And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley
around the middle and walked off.
　　Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He
had been hugged by a complete stranger. He
also thought he had been called a Muggle,
whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried
to his car and set off for home, hoping he was
imagining things, which he had never hoped
before, because he didn't approve of
imagination.
　　As he pulled into the driveway of number
four, the first thing he saw -- and it didn't
improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he'd
spotted that morning. It was now sitting on
his garden wall. He was sure it was the same
one; it had the same markings around its
eyes.
　　"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat
didn't move. It just gave him a stern look.
Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley
wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he
let himself into the house. He was still
determined not to mention anything to his
wife.
　　Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day.
She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next
Door's problems with her daughter and how
Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!". Mr.
Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley
had been put to bed, he went into the living
room in time to catch the last report on the
evening news:
　　"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere
have reported that the nation's owls have
been behaving very unusually today. Although
owls normally hunt at night and are hardly
ever seen in daylight, there have been
hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in
every direction since sunrise. Experts are
unable to explain why the owls have suddenly
changed their sleeping pattern." The
newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most
mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin
with the weather. Going to be any more
showers of owls tonight, Jim?"
　　"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't
know about that, but it's not only the owls
that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as
far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have
been phoning in to tell me that instead of the
rain I promised yesterday, they've had a
downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people
have been celebrating Bonfire Night early --
it's not until next week, folks! But I can
promise a wet night tonight."
　　Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair.
Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by
daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over
the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the
Potters...
　　Mrs. Dursley came into the living room
carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd
have to say something to her. He cleared his
throat nervously. "Er -- Petunia, dear -- you
haven't heard from your sister lately, have
you?"
　　As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked
shocked and angry. After all, they normally
pretended she didn't have a sister.
　　"No," she said sharply. "Why?"
　　"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley
mumbled. "Owls... shooting stars... and there
were a lot of funny-looking people in town
today..."
　　"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.
　　"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was
something to do with... you know... her
crowd."
　　Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through
pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he
dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter."
He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as
casually as he could, "Their son -- he'd be
about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"
　　"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.
　　"What's his name again? Howard, isn't
it?"
　　"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask
me."
　　"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart
sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."
　　He didn't say another word on the subject
as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs.
Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley
crept to the bedroom window and peered down
into the front garden. The cat was still there.
It was staring down Privet Drive as though it
were waiting for something.
　　Was he imagining things? Could all this
have anything to do with the Potters? If it
did... if it got out that they were related to a
pair of -- well, he didn't think he could bear it.
　　The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley
fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake,
turning it all over in his mind. His last,
comforting thought before he fell asleep was
that even if the Potters were involved, there
was no reason for them to come near him and
Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what
he and Petunia thought about them and their
kind.... He couldn't see how he and Petunia
could get mixed up in anything that might be
going on -- he yawned and turned over -- it
couldn't affect them....
　　How very wrong he was.
　　Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into
an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall
outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It
was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed
unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive.
It didn't so much as quiver when a car door
slammed on the next street, nor when two
owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly
midnight before the cat moved at all.

where's the rest

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It's obvious why she stopped- no encouragement

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